Run and Hide and Seek
by catsplosion
Summary: Based on a kmeme prompt: After Fenris breaks her heart, Gwenyth Hawke finds brief comfort in a handsome stranger nursing his own wounds.
1. Chapter 1

Tonight, she was no different from any of the other patrons of the Hanged Man; just another sad sack drowning her sorrows in cheap ale. Looking for excuses not to go home to her recently emptied bed.

No, let's not be melodramatic. "Recently emptied" gives the false impression that she'd shared it for more than a night. She sighed heavily into her drink. After almost three years of waiting and wishing and wanting, he had finally yielded to the fire that had slowly built between them, and for one night, the blaze consumed them.

Her throat tightened even as her cheeks flushed at the memory of his hands - gentle, nimble, strong - and his deep, throaty moans of pleasure. He had collapsed into her arms...but she'd awoken to find him trying to creep out like a thief.

That's not fair. If he'd wanted to sneak away he almost certainly could have. Still, it was of little comfort to her that he chose to stay and reject her to her face. "This should never have happened in the first place," he had said, the words an icy needle in her heart.

Hurt and anger gave way to shame as she recalled the events of the previous evening, and she decided another pint was in order. But before she got it back to her table, a man jostled her, and she sloshed ale across the front of her robes.

"Shit, sorry!" the man slurred. "So sorry!" He forced a grimy handkerchief into her palm.

"It's fine," she sighed, blotting wearily at the soiled navy fabric. "It's not as if anyone's looking," she muttered to herself.

But the remark didn't go unnoticed. "Well, that's a shame, innit?"

She looked up at him, somewhere between surprise and disbelief. He gave her a crooked smile and cocked his eyebrow at her. She'd seen him in here before - a LOT - but never paid him much attention. Until now. He had the broad shoulders of a skilled swordsman and striking amber eyes under his unkempt mop of blond hair. Decent enough; maybe even handsome, if he tried. She returned his grin. "Isn't it just?"

He had all the clumsiness of a drunken one-night-stand, but he handled her with frustrating softness, his hands skimming her body through the thick fabric of her robes. She grabbed him by the shirt and plundered his mouth with her tongue.

"You won't break me," she whispered, though as she ran her hands down his chest it occurred to her that he probably could.

He laughed nervously. "I - ah -" She nipped at his neck, tasting sweat and stale smoke, and he shuddered. "I should warn you, though."

"Warn me what?" she murmured, tugging his shirt off. Too many nights in the pub had started to soften him, but only just; she ran her hands over the solid planes of his chest appreciatively. "You're not a demon, are you?"

"What? No, nothing like that!" He trailed a finger over the closures at the front of her robes. "I just...I'm a bit...rusty, you might say?"

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, working the closures open one by one until the garment slid from her shoulders. He reached for her, but she shoved him back against the door, his fingers barely grazing her hip. "Uh-uh," she teased. "Let's get you up to speed, shall we?"

"What are you talking about?" he groaned theatrically, his eyes glued to her as she slipped off her breast band and wriggled out of her smallclothes.

"Well, we haven't really the time to practice," she said, bending over the bed. "So I'll just have to show you what I like."

To his credit, he learned quickly. Unfortunately, he proved quick in other aspects as well, and before she knew it he'd collapsed beside her on the bed, spent. She sank back onto her heels. "Right, then," she sighed.

"Oh, not so fast," he said, sliding one hand up her thigh. "You wound me, Messere," he chuckled as he laid her on her back. "To think I'd forsake a lady in her time of need!" He lowered his face between her legs, and if his willingness came as a surprise, it had nothing on his skill. Soon stars exploded across her eyelids and she cried out in ecstasy, her fingers curling into his hair. Gradually she returned to her senses and sat up, leaning back on her hands.

"That was…" she shook her head and brushed an errant curl back from her cheek.

"Mm, my thoughts exactly," he chuckled in a low, sultry tone.

"So, you're Fereldan?" she stood and stretched, collecting her clothes. "And not so rusty as you might think," she added with a wink. To her amusement, she noticed that he'd furtively covered himself with the blanket.

"Oh, right. I'm sure lots of men in Kirkwall lack stamina." Suddenly he looked stricken. "Not that - I don't mean that you - when I said 'lots of men' I didn't -"

Laughing, she bent down silenced him with a kiss. "Maybe you should save your mouth for that other thing," she whispered teasingly, and slipped out the door.

And like magic, she slept soundly through the night.


	2. Chapter 2

She'd gotten used to waking up with an aching head - that had pretty well become standard this last week - but the ache between her legs was new. Yawning, she rubbed her grainy eyes as last night's...antics...came back to her in fuzzy flashes. She recalled a spilled drink...and that blond man. As she began to piece it all together, the dreaded knock sounded.

Groaning, she pulled a pillow over her face.

"It's nearly noon, Gwenyth. You can't keep sulking the day away."

"Yes, Mother," she muttered. Leandra kept talking, but Hawke wasn't listening. She couldn't decide which was worse - being treated like a child, or knowing that her mother didn't have any idea how pathetic the situation had become. "Just - send Orana up for a bath, would you?"

She dragged herself out of bed, wrapping herself tightly in her dressing gown. A narrow sliver of sunlight snuck in through a gap in the drapes; she crossed the room and clapped the heavy brocade shut, restoring the room to the comforting dim.

She'd tried avoiding her room altogether, but her mother had found her early the following morning, curled up on a chaise in the library. The meager relief of escaping the specter of melancholy that had taken up residence in her bedchamber wasn't worth the litany of questions, criticisms, and complaints that ensued. Her own bed, at least, afforded her a few extra hours' sleep - and privacy. She thanked the Maker for the estate; any crying done in Gamlen's shack would have quickly become common knowledge. And cry she had. For three nights straight.

On the fourth night, her misery had reached a fever pitch. Fueled by a bottle or so of wine, she'd stormed over to the mansion Fenris occupied, foolishly unarmed and not properly dressed. Miraculously, she'd managed to avoid the criminal element that plagued the city...although in retrospect, a mugging would have been a slightly more dignified end to that story.

She'd pounded relentlessly at his door, first demanding an audience, then pleading for one, then sobbing unintelligible curses until a guardsman came and politely dragged her back home. Thank the Maker for Aveline, who had her at the barracks often enough that she got on well with most of the guard. She didn't doubt that she'd become the subject of at least a little gossip, but it could have been worse; they could have hauled her in for causing a disturbance, made her sober up on a lousy cot, and - worst of all - sent her home, hungover and unkempt, through the busy Hightown streets.

As Orana let herself in, Hawke considered if that gossip would have been worse than the stir she must have created in Lowtown. Surely someone had seen her scurrying upstairs with that bedraggled refugee; in fact, Varric probably already knew.

"Can I do anything else for you, mistress?" The dear girl had quickly learned not to point out how tired and bleary she looked these days; Hawke appreciated her perspicacity.

"Thank you, Orana, this is fine." She heated the bathwater with the tips of her fingers and sank in with a weary sigh.

Better to face it sooner than later.

"Any hope of a late lunch?" she asked, standing in the doorway to his suite.

"Hawke," he greeted her warmly. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."

She plunked down at the table, propping her chin on her hand. "Don't be melodramatic. It's barely been a week."

"A week without your smiling face feels like a lifetime," he said in a sing-song voice. "To be honest, I've been worried."

She groaned and covered her face with both hands. "How much have you heard?"

"Only that you were escorted home a few nights ago, drunk...in your nightgown." He held up a reassuring hand. "And that came from Aveline, who assured me that the matter had been brought to her privately."

"For now." Her voice came muffled from behind her hands.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry. Between the two of you, there's enough respect to keep the guards quiet. And fear." She heard his footsteps behind her and felt a tentative, feather-light touch on her shoulder. "I'll see if Nora can find you something that passes for food. When I get back, you can decide if you want to talk about it."

Talk about it? She really didn't. What good could come of that? She'd never been one to lay her feelings out on the table to be poked and prodded. Keep digging at a wound and it'll never heal.

Varrick returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a hunk of slightly stale bread. "I'm reasonably certain there's no rat in this," he said as he set it in front of her.

"I just feel so stupid," she said quietly as Varric sat down across from her. "All my life I've known that -" she choked on the word that came to her lips, swallowed it, and tried another. "- that romance was not for me. The safety of my entire family depended upon our secrecy - our isolation." Sighing, she dunked a bit of bread into the stew and shoved it into her mouth. "Of course, I have little left to protect now." She swallowed. "I just thought...after everything we've been through…" She looked up at her friend, her forehead creased. "Are you going to say "I told you so'?"

"Please, Hawke. Give me some credit. I'd never kick a friend while she's down." He gave her a gentle smile. "Especially not one who could set me on fire with a snap of her fingers."

Her attempt at smiling looked more like a grimace. "He was right. It never should have happened in the first place."

"Don't beat yourself up, okay? There's plenty of lowlifes out there you could be beating up instead. And there's coin in that!"

Maybe he was joking, but he also had the best idea she'd heard all week. "Do you have something lined up?"

"Aveline did have a little extortion racket she wanted us to look into, down by the docks. You interested?"

She began shoveling stew into her mouth, eager to get out and focus on something new. "You know it."

As they headed out, Varric stopped to chat with someone at the bar. Hawke idly scanned the room...and caught a couple of drunks jeering at her from their table. Shit. "I'll meet you outside," she called to Varric as she ducked out the door. And so it began. At least her mother wasn't privy to Lowtown gossip...unless Gamlen -

Mercifully, Varric appeared to interrupt her thoughts. "Everything okay?"

"Just...needed some air," she gulped, forcing a smile.

You can't bullshit a bullshitter - and his expression said as much - but to her relief, he let it go.


	3. Chapter 3

Their investigation around the docks pointed to a campsite out on the Wounded Coast, and that kind of adventure called for reinforcements. Conveniently enough, they'd already run into Isabela. The Rivaini loved hanging out around the docks, and made a killing playing Wicked Grace with young, landlocked sailors.

"Care to go hiking with us?" Hawke asked, propping one boot on the crate where Isabela sat. "We hear the coast is lovely this time of year."

She sighed. "How can I refuse, when you ask so nicely?" The men groaned and protested her departure even as she swept their losses into her pouch. "Look on the bright side, boys. You probably have enough left for a pint ... if you share."

Hawke just shook her head as the three of them walked away. "You're going to wear out your welcome down here."

"Unless the sailors run out of money first," Varric said.

The pirate shrugged a bare shoulder. "Maybe I'll take my game upcity, where the _real_ money is."

Kirkwall's noblemen falling victim to Isabela's bare, bronze skin and ruthlessness at cards? The thought brought a grin to her lips. "Speaking of Hightown, let's see if Aveline's free."

Varric looked at her skeptically. "Hawke, if the captain wanted to get involved in this mess, she probably wouldn't have asked us in the first place."

"She asked us to get answers. She might be interested in the cleanup. Especially if she wants her brought in alive."

Aveline barely glanced up from her mountain of paperwork. "Hawke, if I had time to chase down every reprobate who stirs up trouble around here, I wouldn't need your help."

"Of course. We're only doing your dirty work - why would you feel obliged to get involved?" She stormed out of the guard captain's office.

Isabela caught up to her first. "What's got into you?"

"I just think she should at least _help_ us fight her battles." She shoved through the heavy doors of the Keep and into blinding sunlight.

"Since when do we need her? Let's go get Fenris and -"

Hawke's step faltered at the sound of his name. Isabela grabbed her arm.

"Andraste's holy hole, did something finally happen?"

Varric showed up before she could respond. "So, what's the plan?" They both watched her expectantly.

There was always someone looking to her for answers. She wondered if anyone understood how tiresome that could be. Shutting her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Go get Fenris," she sighed. "We'll be at Hubert's stall - he had Bone Pit business he wanted to discuss."

"Are you -"

"Just go, Varric!" she snapped. "Tell him we need his help. I don't like our odds on the Coast without a bit of brute strength on our side." She gave Isabela a stern look and headed down the stairs.

"Well? Tell me what happened."

"No."

She made an indignant noise and swatted Hawke on the arm. "What do you mean, no?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine." She folded her arms across her ample chest. "And here I thought you liked Fenris."

"I do - did - " She stopped short. "Maker, Isabela, no means no! I don't want to talk about it, and I _really_ don't want you prattling on in front of him and making things worse. Is that clear?" The pirate's wounded expression quickly cooled Hawke's temper. "I'm sorry, Bela. I just…"

"It's alright," she assured her, linking her arm through hers. "I'll get it out of you when you're ready - or drunk."

Her meeting with Hubert turned into an argument, as it often did.

"I think you overstep your bounds, Serah Hawke. Ours is an equal partnership, is it not?"

"Need I remind you that without me, you'd have no miners, and essentially no mine? I will speak with the men, find out how the coin could best be spent, and we _will_ invest half of this windfall in our workforce."

"Bah." Hubert flapped his hands at her. "You coddle these men, serah, but I see there is no arguing with you. Do what you will."

Varric appeared. "Doesn't she always?"

Shoulders stiff, Hawke turned. Fenris stood a few paces behind, looking everywhere but at her. "Ah, good. You're here. Thank you, Fenris, for joining us."

His voice was strained. "You have more than earned my blade."

"Yes. Great. Let's go."

The sun pounded them from above and the wind staged a cruel frontal assault, making the trek exceptionally grueling; at least it was quiet. On their way to the cove, Isabela had launched into her seemingly endless repertoire of sea shanties, Varric joining in on the ones he knew. But now, bloody and worn from battle, they lacked the energy even for that. Hawke took bitter comfort from Fenris' slumped shoulders and downcast gaze.

They had known they'd find an elf with ties to Orlais, heavily guarded by mercenaries. They had not known, however, that the elf was a mage, which of course escalated the tension between herself and Fenris. She'd almost wanted him to say something to provoke her, but to what end? A shouting match wouldn't accomplish anything … although it might relieve some of this contention. But he held his tongue, so she did the same.

By time they reached the city, the sun had retreated beyond the horizon.

"Fenris." Was it her imagination, or did he flinch at the sound of his name on her lips? She held out the scrap of parchment she'd retrieved from the Orlesian elf's body. "You should take this to Aveline." It was a list of names - some familiar, some not, likely targets of the blackmail scheme. "Since you're headed that way."

Maybe he never intended to join them, or maybe he took the hint. "I...yes. Of course." He took the parchment without so much as a glance at her face and slunk off towards Hightown.

Varric and Isabela exchanged glances but said nothing.

"What? You want to drink with him, go ahead. He's got that stolen wine cellar, I'm sure he'd be happy to play host." She headed for the Hanged Man, and after a moment they followed.

Dinner and drinks led to Wicked Grace and drinks, everyone pretended that Fenris' absence was nothing notable, and things felt almost normal. Except, of course, for the amber eyes watching her intently from the corner. And Hawke kept her gaze fixed intently anywhere but there.

Perhaps too intently.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to see through our cards," Varric teased. "Wait - can you do that?"

"If she could, she wouldn't be losing," Isabela snorted.

"Maybe that's what I want you to think. Maybe I'm just waiting for the stakes to be high enough, and I'll make you all look like fools." She stared at her hand, then dropped her cards onto the table. "Not tonight, though. I fold."

He frowned. "As do I."

The Rivaini squealed gleefully. She never tired of winning.

"And on that note, I'm afraid I have to resign." The dwarf drained his glass and stood. "I've got a guild thing in the morning, and they have an aversion to reasonable timing."

"Good luck with that." Hawke turned to Isabela. "I'd appreciate it if you'd put off your plan to get me drunk and pry gossip out of me for another night," she sighed.

"Actually…" she looked pointedly over Hawke's shoulder. "I think I've got plans."

She stretched and nonchalantly glanced behind her. A pretty young woman in a very short dress stood at the bar, undeniably looking in their direction. Grinning, she turned back to her friend. "So I see."

"Unless…" She sighed. "I suppose it's not nice of me to leave you -"

"Oh, don't." Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "I'm fine. I'll finish my pint and head home. Maker knows I need an early night or two."

"You're sure?"

"Completely. Happy hunting," she added with a wink.

Hawke hadn't even finished her pint before Isabela and her new friend were heading arm in arm out the door. She smiled ruefully into her glass. You'd never catch a woman like that crying over a lost lover. Well, unless you count ships… which Bela probably did.

The sudden appearance of a glass of whiskey interrupted her thoughts. "I already have a drink." She didn't need to look up to see how it had gotten there.

"But it's almost gone." To her dismay, the blond man sat down across from her.

"And if I wanted another, I'd get it myself," she sighed. "Look, I don't want this being a … thing. Okay?"

"I'm not - I mean, I don't want …" Now it was his turn to sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, which had recently become acquainted with a comb. "I had a decent night's sleep for the first time in years. I just thought that warranted a 'thank you'."

"That's a little weird," she said, raising her brow. "Just so you know."

"I'm sure it is. I'm new to this." He pinned her with his damnably brilliant eyes. "Maybe I need more practice."

"Maybe you should try the Blooming Rose."

He gave her a crooked smile that made heat well up under the collar of her robe. "There's nothing there that I want."

Hawke exhaled sharply. "Really, I -"

"Tell me you didn't enjoy it," he challenged.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she found words. "Did you really just ask me that?'

He shrugged, spreading his hands palms-up. "What've I got to lose?"

Suddenly parched, she grabbed the whiskey and downed it in two gulps. "Okay, yes. I did enjoy it."

"Then why not enjoy it again?"

Pressing her lips between her teeth, she considered this carefully, and found herself lacking in answers. Avoiding his gaze, she rolled the empty glass between her palms, testing a series of weak excuses. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing.

She sighed. "People would talk."

"Oh? What people?" He looked around theatrically, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "Right - the drunks. Of course!" He fought back a smile, but his eyes crinkled up at the corners. "You're absolutely right. I'd hate to ruin your reputation with the drunk community."

Laughter burst from her lips like a bird startled out of a tree. She covered her mouth in a mix of shock and embarrassment, but that knot in the pit of her stomach had loosened a little. She looked intently at her hands for a long while before she raised her eyes to his face. He _was_ handsome. And … skilled. "I don't want this to get complicated," she said firmly.

"No complications," he promised and slowly, deliberately wet his lips.

"Andraste's pyre," she murmured, getting to her feet. "Go on, then."

"Oh no," he said, bowing. "Ladies first."

She shot him a devilish look over her shoulder. "We'll see about that."


	4. Chapter 4

"Spiders. It _had_ to be spiders." A tiny flame sprung from the tip of Hawke's finger, and she set a web alight, grimacing.

Anders chuckled, casting a beam of light into a crevice. "And here I thought you weren't afraid of anything."

She glared at him over her shoulder. "I'm not _afraid_. I just don't like them." Shuddering, she pointed to a crawl space between two boulders. "Too many legs. It's unnatural."

He moved to the other side of the hole and gave her a nod. She flooded the dark space with ice, which Anders shattered with a bolt of lightning. "I think that's the last of them."

"Thank the Maker," she sighed, shaking the dust out of her robes. "Let's get out of here." She scooped up the drakestone he'd gathered and passed it to him. "You sure this is enough?"

He took the sack without meeting her eyes. "It'll be fine. Thanks."

She eyed him assiduously. His clothes hung off his gaunt frame, his complexion sallow; but what worried her most was the way he'd started avoiding her gaze. She'd tried to get some answers from him, but the conversation turned into a rant about the Circle and the Order so intense that it made her uneasy. Still, she hated that the silence between them had grown uncomfortable.

They were halfway down the coast before he spoke.

"Hawke, is everything alright?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I just...you've seemed a bit off lately, is all."

One eyebrow shot up. "And you haven't?"

"And I haven't seen Fenris lately."

There it was. "Why do you care? You two hate each other."

"I care about _you_, Hawke. And it worries me that after following at your heel for years, your wild dog has finally bitten."

She whirled to face him, her hazel eyes blazing. "Don't."

"I just -"

"Did you hear me? I know you can't be civil to one another, but could you at least leave me out of it_?"_

"How can you even ask me that? You're talking about a man who hates everything you are! Who would -"

"Anders, _stop!_ Don't we have enough enemies? For all his talk, Fenris has always lent me his aid - even for the sake of mages. " She could see the flicker in his eyes, but he said nothing. "Just...save it for the templars, okay?"

"You're right," he mumbled.

She nudged him with her elbow. "Come on. I hate it when we fight."

A small smile graced his tired face. "We never fight. I just ardently disapprove of some of your decisions."

"Ah, yes - what are friends are for?"

She barely took two steps into the house before she triggered another trap.

"Tell me you're staying for dinner, dear," her mother pleaded. "I feel like I haven't seen you in an age!"

Hawke held back a sigh. "Of course. Just let me clean up a bit, I've been at the Bone Pit all day."

"I can tell," her mother replied, wrinkling her nose at her dirty robes.

What she really wanted was a bath, but the longer her mother waited, the more complaints she'd have. She settled for splashing her face and changing her clothes.

"It's nice to see you looking like a lady for a change," her mother greeted her, referring to the simple green dress she wore.

She sat down and gave a weary smile. "How have you been, mother?"

"Worried about you, more often than not. It's like living with a ghost lately."

Well, that didn't take long. "I'm sorry. Aveline needed my help with a case, and I've had mine business, and -"

Her mother held up a hand. "I'm not a fool, Gwenyth. I know where you've been."

Hawke paused, her fork hovering over her plate. "You do?"

"What do you take me for? That elf of yours slinks out of here late one night, and now night after night you slink in long after dark, reeking of ale and Maker knows what else. Did you think I'm oblivious to anything that happens outside this estate?"

Someday, she would find humor in this misunderstanding. But not today. She set her fork down, dismayed by the tremor in her hand. "This isn't a conversation I'm interested in having."

"Do you think that your interests are all that matter? Your actions reflect on this family."

"It's my actions that provide for this family!" she shouted, and her mother flinched. "I think I've earned a bit of free time."

"And that's how you spend it? Sneaking about with that tattooed elf?"

It took a concerted effort to unclench her jaw. "With whom I spend my time is none of your business."

Leandra's voice grew louder. "I'm thinking about your future, Gwenyth - and you should do the same!"

"Oh, but I am!" She stood so abruptly that her chair overturned. "We talk about marriage all the time! He can move in here, and we'll give you dozens of half-breed grandchildren!" Throwing her napkin onto the table, she stormed out; her mother's shrill voice chased her to the door.

Anger carried her halfway through Hightown, the taste of her words foul in her mouth. Gradually, though, it subsided and shame set in; she shivered in the evening chill. She wanted a hot bath, a stiff drink, and sleep, but a mix of pride and shame kept her from returning home.

She felt incredibly conspicuous as she entered the Hanged Man, as if she wore an unconvincing costume. On the bright side, maybe no one would recognize her. Scanning the room, she saw none of her friends. Upstairs, she found Varric's door closed. That didn't mean anything; she could just knock...

Or not. She peered down the dimly-lit hallway, absentmindedly twisting the hem of her dress. She'd never just shown up at his room before; he might not appreciate it.

"Sod it," she muttered, and crossed the hall to his door, knocking before she could lose her nerve. The plan was to count to ten and then bolt, but by time she reached five she could hear footsteps, and by seven, the door opened.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked, mortified by the tremor in her voice.

He stood there in nothing but his trousers, and her mouth went dry as it occurred to her that he might have...company.

"I - it's you."

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "Sorry. I was just..." Her cheeks grew hot.

He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a decidedly sexy grin. "Do you want to come in?"

"Maker, yes," she sighed, her shoulders softening. "Don't suppose you've got something to drink?" His lantern glowed brighter than usual, and a book lay open on the bed. She turned to him sheepishly. "I'm sorry for barging in like this."

"No, I'm glad you came." He grabbed the shirt that laid across the back of the chair in the corner. "I'll get us something from the bar." Crossing to where she stood, he interrupted her impending protest with a kiss so thorough that it left her breathless. "But if you insist, I'll let you make it up to me."

Hawke sat on the edge of the bed and freed her scarlet waves from the loose braid that held them. Slipping her shoes off, she tucked one leg under her and grabbed the open book. History, from what she could tell; maybe comparative religion - she found passages about the Qun as well as the Chantry. Deep reading, to be sure. She wondered, and not for the first time, just who this man really was.

The door scraped open and her companion appeared with a bottle of wine. He took one look at her and froze, his hand still on the open door.

She glanced guiltily at the open book. "I'm sorry," she said, setting it down. "I was -"

"Don't do that," he said hoarsely. "With your hair." He shut the door with enough force that the sound made her jump.

Confused, she ran her fingers through her locks. "Don't…what?"

"Here." Handing her the bottle of wine, he sat heavily beside her. She'd left the lacing lying on the bed; he grabbed it and tied her hair back loosely. "There," he said with forced cheer. "Much better."

Studying him carefully, she uncorked the wine and took a drink straight from the bottle. The crease between his brows contradicted his smile. She took a deep breath and took a calculated risk. "Did she die? In the Blight, perhaps?"

His gaze darkened and he looked away, but his hand still rested on her bare knee. "No...worse than that."

She thought of Bethany's broken, bleeding body, of the taint burning under Carver's flesh. "Worse than death?"

When he spoke, his voice was soft. "Betrayal."

"I'm sorry." She held out the bottle, and he took it.

"You don't need to be."

"I showed up uninvited, and brought bad memories with me."

"The bad memories were already here. I just...I don't want to think of her. Especially not when I look at you." The intensity of his gaze made her hand tremble as she reached for the bottle. He held it out of her grasp. "If you want any more," he teased, "you're going to have to work for it.

And work she did.

She collapsed onto his chest, panting, unable to tell which racing heartbeat belonged to whom. He tucked one arm under his head, his other hand lingering on her thigh. In these vulnerable moments, they treaded carefully.

"In retrospect," she sighed, "this may not have been the best idea."

"Is that a complaint?" he murmured, his chest rumbling beneath her.

"Just about the walk home."

"You could put it off till morning." She sat up abruptly, but he grabbed her arm before she could fully disentangle herself. "For the sake of practicality, is all. You're hardly dressed for a Kirkwall night."

Biting her lip, she scrutinized his face. "I don't know…"

"It's either that, or you let me walk you home."

She scowled. "I don't -"

"I know - you can take care of yourself. But I don't think it's safe for anyone to be alone at night here."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the bottle of wine. "It _is_ chilly out," she mused, taking a drink and passing him the bottle.

"I promise to behave myself," he said in mock solemnity.

She poked him in the ribs, making him twitch. "That'd be a first."

He scooted over, making room for her to lie down, and she extinguished the lamp. In the dark, she could feel the warmth of his body just inches from her own.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He gently grazed her arm with the back of one hand. "Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke awoke to gentle snoring and a heavy arm draped over her hip. She slid stealthily out of his bed and fumbled for her clothes; in the dark she dressed and tamed her hair. As she slipped her shoes on, she looked from the bed to the door and back. Sneaking out in the dark felt wrong, but she didn't want him to get the wrong idea...

She almost laughed at that. A polite farewell hardly imparted a level of intimacy to carnal relations between a pair of nameless strangers. She leaned over the bed and nudged his shoulder. "Hey," she whispered.

He shifted. "Hnnng?"

"I've got to run." That seemed inadequate. "Thank you, again."

He rolled over and cracked one eye. "Going home?" he yawned.

She nodded.

He smiled sleepily. "Mmm." He pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over.

The hallway had better lighting, so she gave her dress a quick once-over and headed for the stairs - where she came face to face with the last person in the world she wanted to see.

"Hawke," Fenris stuttered, looking her over closely. "What are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms to keep from smoothing her hair. "What business is that of yours?" He winced. Good.

"I, ah, I was just -"

"And what concern is that of mine?" Without waiting for an answer, she shoved past him, struggling not to look back. She thought she could feel his eyes on her back, and she lifted her chin defiantly.

She opened the tavern door to a faceful of dazzling mid-morning sun. Perfect - her mother would be awake by now, because she needed yet another awkward confrontation. Fenris might think she'd been with Varric, but he'd find out that she hadn't, and then…

And then _what?_ It was no business of anyone's where she spent the night, and no one had a reason to care. Aside from Fenris, that is, and to the Void with him. She hoped he cared. She hoped it _hurt, _hoped he laid awake tonight imagining someone else's hands on her body. Hoped…

Hoped what?

That he showed up at her door with flowers and an apology? That he begged her for another chance? That he could reach inside her chest and put her broken pieces back together?

A chirping voice saved her from her misery. "Hawke! You're out early."

She took a deep breath, forced a casual smile, and turned around. "As are you, Merrill. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes I go out to the docks to watch the sunrise over the water. It's very peaceful, if you ignore all the shouting and swearing. What about you? I've never seen you in a dress before! You look very pretty."

Hawke blushed a little at the attention. "Thank you, Merrill. I just … decided to go for a walk. Try to enjoy the morning, for a change."

"Well, that's nice! You can come visit sometime, if you like. I'm always up early. Maybe we could go to the docks together?"

By now, her fake smile had been replaced by a more genuine one; Merrill had that effect on people. "I'd like that," she replied, and she meant it.

"Well, I've got to go water my plants. Have a good day, Hawke." And she skipped off in the direction of the alienage.

She marveled at the way the girl's sunshine could break through even the darkest clouds. Forsaken by her people, alone in the shabbiest part of the city, she still found reasons to smile. Hawke really needed to visit the alienage more often.

She tried to enter the estate quietly, but Hugo had other ideas. The Mabari greeted her noisily, bounding back and forth out of her reach when she tried to grab him.

"Quiet!" she whispered loudly, her eyes darting to the stairs. "You'll wake mother, you fool beast!" He threw himself onto his back and writhed around until she scratched his belly.

"Oh, no need to worry about that, Messere," Bodahn spoke from the dining room doorway. "She's gone to tea. You only just missed her, in fact."

"What a pity." It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "Was she very cross?"

"Actually...your mother believes you came home late last night, and that you were still in bed when she left."

Her shock overshadowed her gratitude. "Why, Bodahn, I didn't -"

"I wasn't telling tales, Messere! I just…I thought it would be impolite to argue with her. So I didn't."

"You're a good man," she said with a smile. "I'd better make myself presentable before she gets back."

"Before you go up - there's a letter on your desk. The woman who brought it said it was important."

"That's rarely a good sign," she muttered. A frown creased her features as she read the letter.

"Would you like something to eat, mistress?"

She barely glanced up. "Just something quick, please, Orana. I can't stay long." Folding the letter, she tucked it into a pocket. "Bodahn, can you pay a visit to the clinic?"

"Of course, Messere. Should I -?"

"Have Anders meet me in the alienage in an hour. Tell him that Arianni needs our help."

Hawke stood in the doorway of the guard captain's office. "I need you, Aveline."

She kept her eyes on the piece of parchment in her hand. "Hello, Aveline. How have you been, Aveline? I'm sorry I got in a snit and stormed out of your office, Aveline."

Folding her arms, she dug her toe into the carpet. "I _am_ sorry."

Setting the paper down, she fixed her with a stern gaze. "I'm concerned about you, Hawke. It's -"

"You can lecture me all you want, but you have to do it on the way to the alienage." She handed her the letter.

"Nightmares? I don't...Hawke, what could we even do for him?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out - and I need you."

"Are you sure? Because I _will_ lecture you all the way to the alienage."

She sighed. "I know. But I'll feel better going into...whatever this is...with people I can count on."

Aveline wrapped up her business in a hurry, and they set off.

"Now, do I need to address the importance of not creating another drunken debacle in Hightown?"

"No," she said with a wry smile. "That's a mistake I won't be making again - and my thanks to your guardsman for not making my humiliation any more public than I did."

"So...what happened?"

The concern in Aveline's eyes loosened her lips. "A mistake, apparently."

"Are those your words, or his?"

She considered the distinction. "Both, I suppose. Had I known that's how it would end, I wouldn't have let it begin."

"He's sorry, you know." She caught Hawke's sharp glance. "He said as much, when he brought me that list of names."

"He told you he was sorry?"

"He said…" She narrowed her eyes, scouring her memory. "He said 'Her troubles are many, and I regret that I added to them.'"

Hawke frowned.

"What's wrong?"

Hawke sighed. "I don't want him to think that I resent helping him - or that I wouldn't help him again, if he needed it."

"Perhaps you need to have a talk with him, then."

"Yes," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "that's a splendid idea."

"Hawke, you can't just wash your hands of this. You've both built new lives for yourselves here - and like it or not, those lives are connected."

"You know, Aveline," she grumbled, "you can be insufferably right sometimes."

She grinned smugly. "I can't leave all the glory to you, you know."

When they arrived at the tavern, they found Varric - alone.

"Where's Anders?"

Varric shrugged. "Beats me. Did we have a date I didn't know about?"

"Maker's _piss," _Hawke muttered. "He was supposed to be here, I sent Bodahn after him." She watched the door, worrying her lip between her teeth. "Where is he?"

"Shout if you see him," Aveline said as she went to talk to an off-duty guard.

"So," Varric began. "Sleep well last night?"

"Well enough," she said stiffly, her eyes on the door.

"Really? I've heard the beds in the boarding rooms are -"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his sardonic expression. Her shoulders sank. "Did you tell Fenris?"

"I told him you were fine, and it wasn't my place to tell him your business."

"So...does he know, or not?"

"I didn't disavow him of the notion that I saw you this morning." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Were you really wearing a dress? I didn't realize this thing had gotten so serious."

"It's not serious - and itt's hardly even a thing! I...it's a long story. I only stayed the night because it was late and I didn't want to walk home."

He shrugged. "You're a grown woman, Hawke. Where you spend your nights is up to you."

Looking up, she saw Aveline returning to them with Anders in tow. "I haven't heard the last of this, have I?"

Varric grinned. "Not even close."

Their friends joined them. "What's happened to Arianni?" Anders asked.

Hawke shook her head. "Not her, Feynriel. His nightmares are back."

"Nightmares? What does that mean for us?"

"Let's go find out."


	6. Chapter 6

"This is ridiculous," Hawke muttered, staring at the door. She shifted from one foot to the other. She glanced behind her, where Kirkwall nobility passed by, oblivious to her struggle. She raised a hand to knock, then smoothed her hair instead. She adjusted her robes. She examined the toes of her boots. She took a deep breath and lifted her hand again.

The door opened, startling her. "Hawke?" Fenris asked, his green eyes wide. "What are you doing?"

Faffing about on your doorstep like a crazy person, she thought. "I came to see you." She fidgeted with the cuff of her robes. "I, uh, I have a job, If you want it." She passed him the scrap of paper. "Later tonight, of course."

"More bandits at the docks. Shocking." He sort of looked up at her, but his eyes never reached her face. "If you need my help, I -"

"I don't. I mean, it's…" Taking a deep breath, she tried again. "I didn't come to you out of desperation. I came because it's paying work and you're -" she swallowed hard; "- I thought you might want to come. That's all."

"Oh. I...yes. Thank you."

"Good. Hanged Man, half past dark?"

"I'll...see you then."

She forced a smile and left without saying goodbye. Really, though, it could have been worse.

She found Isabela ogling sailors - or ships...or both - down at the docks. "How about I buy you a pint?" she offered.

She rested her hand on one cocked hip. "You never offer outright - what's the catch?"

Hawke chuckled. "I'm going to ask you for a favor or two. I figure my odds are better if you've got a bit of ale in you first."

"I'll let you buy me a drink, but I'm not promising anything."

"Fair enough," she said, slinging her arm around Bela's shoulders.

"What kind of party is this?"

"It's only a party now that you're here, Varric," Hawke smiled at him. "Up for bandit hunting tonight?"

"Sure," he said as he joined her and Isabela at the table. "Bianca could use a nice, normal night out."

"Did you really go to the Fade?" Isabela asked.

"Strangely enough, we did. And it's not a place I'd care to visit again." He turned to Hawke. "Is Aveline joining us, or are you still pissed?"

Hawke said "I'm not pissed," at the same time that Isabela said "She invited Fenris."

Varric looked back and forth between them. "I'm not even sure where to start."

"I'm not pissed," Hawke repeated. "I'm...disappointed. Frustrated. And hoping she'll come to her senses." She frowned. "If she _doesn't_, then I'll be pissed."

Isabela pouted. "I really missed some excitement, didn't I?"

"Aveline betrayed us in the Fade," Varric explained. "A demon convinced her to turn on us."

She sat up abruptly, her boots thudding on the floor. "That sounds serious."

"It's not, really. We defeated her, she woke up. And that's not the issue here. Now she's using her weakness as an excuse to justify oppression."

"That doesn't sound like the Aveline I know," Varric said doubtfully.

"She said that now she's seen the temptation that mages face, she's...'less opposed to the Gallows,' as she put it." She scowled. "I hope she's just saying it to make herself feel better."

"Not that she's pissed," Varric said to Isabela, who smirked. "So, Fenris is joining us? Voluntarily?"

Hawke shrugged. "I can't shut him out forever. How would he find work without my help?" Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "Besides, you're all his friends as well. As much as I might _think_ I want him to be miserable and alone, I'm not so cruel as that."

"Then everything's good between you two?"

"I...wouldn't go that far."

"I promised not to make things worse," Isabela chimed in.

"In that case, I'm sure everything will be great."

Hawke covered her face, stifling a groan, and wondered if it was too early to get drunk.

When they had rooted out the last of the bandits, Hawke invited Fenris back to the tavern; she couldn't decide who looked the most shocked. The evening was predictably awkward, but not intolerable.

As Hawke carried four pints of ale to their table, she caught a glimpse of her blond companion in the corner; but as soon as he saw her, he looked away. Frowning, she took her place on the bench. "That's the last round on me," she informed her friends. "I'm going broke tonight."

"I think I'm almost done for the night, anyway." Fenris had started out quiet, his eyes on his drink or his cards, but he seemed a bit more relaxed as the night went on. "I...thank you. For tonight."

"Anytime," Hawke offered. "Really." She wondered if he wanted to leave before she did to avoid an awkward walk back to Hightown. Just as well, because she had no intention of hurrying home. Her companion had long since vanished upstairs, and she was eager to join him.

As she climbed the stairs, however, she recalled the way he'd avoided her gaze earlier. What if he wasn't waiting for her? What if he didn't want to see her? He wouldn't always, she reminded herself. Still, what harm could there be in trying?

As she knocked on the door, she heard his voice speaking Fenris' words, telling her it never should have happened. A stone dropped into the pit of her stomach and she wanted to run, but it was too late; she could hear his footsteps.

When he opened the door, he didn't smile. "What are you doing here?"

Her throat felt like she swallowed sand. "Making a mistake, I see," she croaked, turning to go. He called after her to stop, but she ignored him, her cheeks burning.

"Messere Hawke!"

She froze. Her deep-set eyes narrowing, she turned back to him. "Did you just -"

"Will you please come back?" He stood in the hall, barefoot, disheveled, looking embarrassed.

"How did you know my name?"

He gave her a shrug and a half-smile. "Really? Everyone knows who you are, Gwenyth Hawke. Even the drunken lowlifes."

She bit her lip, feeling suddenly stupid.

"Come back, won't you? Even if just for a minute."

Sighing, she followed him apprehensively to his room. "You've known who I am this whole time?" she said as soon as he shut the door.

"Does that really surprise you?" He sat on the bed, watching her pace. "You've made quite a name for yourself here."

"But you never said anything." She could hear the accusation in her tone - though she knew he hadn't done anything wrong. Without the cloak of anonymity, she felt exposed.

He chose his words carefully. "I know it's a lot of pressure, being...well-known. I thought you liked getting away from all that."

His insight surprised her, and she relaxed a little. She never realized what a relief it was, the time she spent with him, when the only answers he looked to her for were _yes_ and _please_ and _more_. She crossed her arms. "Why didn't you want me to come tonight?"

"I didn't expect you. There's a difference." He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "It's just, now that your friend with the tattoos is back, I thought..." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

She bit her lip. "He's not 'back' in that sense, if that's what you're thinking." She felt out of her depth. "And even if he was…"

"Look, I know it's none of my business. I'd just rather not try my odds against an angry elf with an enormous sword, so if you're using me to make him jealous -"

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "I'm not. I'm really not." She sat on the edge of the chair near the bed, her folded hands between her knees. "I'm…I don't think about him when I'm with - when I'm here." Her eyes wandered the room. She felt more comfortable in this dingy boarding room than she did in her own estate. "I don't think about anything, really. It's wonderful." She forced herself to meet his watchful gaze. "I didn't realize it before, but you're right. This is an escape for me."

He smiled disarmingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Happy to be of service, Messere," he said with a bow.

"What do you get out of this?" she asked impulsively.

It was his turn to look away. "I don't think about anything either, when you're here. Actually, I..." He shook his head, so slightly that she almost missed it - almost.

"You what?"

"I...enjoy your company." He gave her one his those toe-curling looks. "What man doesn't enjoy the company of a beautiful woman?" He knelt at her feet and slid his hands up her legs.

The tension melted from her muscles at this return to more familiar territory. "Even when I barge in uninvited?" She leaned back in the chair and let him ease her legs apart.

"You're always invited, Messere," he murmured, slipping off her boots. "Though it might be nice if you brought the wine for a change." Winking at her, he pushed up her robe until it bunched at her hips.

"Fair enough," she sighed as his lips brushed the inside of her knee. Shutting her eyes, she curled her fingers into his hair and lost herself.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're not going to start calling me Hawke, are you?" she asked, pulling on her boots.

"Perish the thought! When you're here, you're just that sexy redhead with the tired eyes."

"That's not - " She turned to glare at him but found herself distracted by his nearly naked form; an appreciative smile graced her lips.

"Not what?" He stretched languidly, pooling the sheet between his legs.

"Don't tease me," she growled, reaching to draw the sheet the rest of the way across his body.

He caught her arm, unbalancing her, and she tumbled onto the bed with an undignified squeal. "It's not a tease if you let me make good on it," he whispered, his lips against her ear, making her shiver.

"Feeling ambitious, are we?" she laughed, but he grabbed her hips, pulling her body against his, and she realized he wasn't bluffing. "Maker's mercy, you're serious, aren't you?"

"Well, not if you don't want to, of course." He pressed his thigh firmly between her legs, eliciting a gasp. "But I think you do." The low, growling tone of his voice thrilled her almost as much as his touch.

"Since when do -"

He interrupted her with his mouth on hers. "I know I made a terrible first impression," he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw. "But I told you I was rusty."

Her faculties were rapidly forsaking her, so she gave up protesting. "You're going to wear _me_ out, you know."

Hawke snuck into the estate in her wrinkled robe, fearing the worst. As she eased the door shut, she heard a snort from behind her. Hugo glared at her from the doorway.

"You won't rat me out, will you, boy?" she whispered. The hound sidestepped and gestured toward the stairs with his head. She rewarded his loyalty with a scratch behind the ears as she crept by. All was dark and quiet, to her relief. She scribbled a note to Bodahn, instructing him to have Orana wake her for breakfast.

In her room, she undressed and slipped into bed, wondering if she'd have time to doze at all before her mother woke. Her body ached in the most wonderful ways; he had really been holding out on her lately. She couldn't help but think, though, that tonight's encore had been a ploy to make her stay the night.

A small smile played across her lips as she drifted off.

"Mistress?" Orana hovered at the edge of the bed, one hand extended as if trying to work up the nerve to touch her.

Hawke yawned. "Already?"

"Breakfast is almost ready. Your mama is already in the dining room."

Stretching, she sat up and reached for the dressing gown that hung by the bed. She tried to run her fingers through her hair, but her tangled tresses required more work than she was willing to do at the moment. She cinched her gown closed and headed downstairs.

"You're up early," her mother said, brows raised.

"I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together," she said cautiously, stifling a yawn.

"You look exhausted."

Her shoulders stiffened. "I work very hard."

"I know, dear," her mother sighed. "And I worry about you very much."

"I'm being careful."

Orana served breakfast and Hawke relished the moment of quiet.

"Where do you _go_ all day? Surely not always the mine."

"I..." An idea came to her. "I spend a lot of time with refugees." She hid a grin behind her glass.

Her mother's nose wrinkled. "Doing what?"

"Helping them find work, things like that. I like that I can use my status to benefit others. In fact," she continued before her mother could speak, "we've just hired a few more men to work the mines. There's hope for the lot of us yet."

"I wish you wouldn't lump us in with the derelict refugees down in the Undercity," her mother grumbled.

"Just because we've been luckier than most doesn't mean we should forget where we came from," she scowled. "I think you forget that we're not that long out of Lowtown."

"We could all forget that, if you'd start acting like an Amell."

"And here I thought I was still a Hawke," she said coldly.

Her mother stood abruptly, knocking over her glass. "Honestly, Gwenyth, can't you last ten minutes pretending to be civil?" She stormed out of the dining room, and moments later Hawke heard the bedroom door slam.

She sat quietly for a moment, finished the toast that her mother had left behind, and retreated to her room. Something had to give between the two of them, she knew. She just didn't think the onus to resolve their tension fell to her, after everything she'd done for the family...or what was left of it.

She was trying to force a comb through her disheveled hair when Orana knocked.

"Can I do anything, mistress?"

She paused, her fingers still entwined in her mane. "Actually, you can."

Her mother found her in the library, reading about the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.

"What in Andraste's name have you done!" Her mother's shriek took her by surprise; she dropped her book.

"Calm down, Mother," she chided.

"Calm down? Are you out of your mind? I know you're incapable of acting like a lady, but now you can't even look like one?"

"It's just hair, Mother," she said incredulously, "and I've worn it like this before." Her hands shook and the back of her throat tightened. She wanted to run away, before -

"It's been years. I thought you finally grew up!"

"I lost Bethany!" she choked out, and the tears came.

"Gwenyth?" her mother said hesitantly.

"Bethany cut my hair. Before. And then I lost her, and I just..." Her shoulders shook with the force of her grief, and she slumped back in the chair, drawing her knees to her chest. Her mother sat on the arm of the chair, resting her hand on Hawke's shoulder.

"I never knew," she said softly.

Hawke smiled through her tears. "When you didn't approve, I figured there was no point in making you angry with both of us."

"I didn't think your sister was capable of keeping secrets from me."

She shook her head and leaned into her mother's embrace, putting an arm around her waist. "She managed one." She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "She should be here, not me."

"Don't you dare say that!" her mother scolded, shaking her. "Don't ever think that losing you would have been any easier than losing the twins!"

"Bethany was better suited for this life. Ladies' teas, Spring salons, a line of suitors stretching out the door." She pictured her sister in an elegant gown, sipping champagne at a Hightown party. Her heart ached.

Her mother stroked her short curls. "Are you really so miserable here?"

"Only when you're trying to make me something I'm not."

"Gwenyth." Her mother took hold of her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "All I want for you - all I've _ever_ wanted - is a good life, where you'll be cared for and looked after and safe from harm."

"And what about what _I _want?"

"Is he really what you want?"

She sat upright. "Wait. You mean Fenris?"

"Aren't you and he…?"

Cringing, she shook her head. "I...no. He's...a friend. That's all."

Her mother gave her a skeptical look, but didn't belabor the point. "Then what is it that you want?"

"Well I know what I _don't_ want, and that's a life of ladies' teas and Spring salons." Getting to her feet, she planted a kiss on her mother's head. "And why are you so set on me marrying a nobleman? _You_ didn't."

"Darling, I loved your father very much...but the life we had is not the one I'd wish for you."

"I am what I am, Mother. Unless things change - a _lot - _that's the best life a mage can hope for." She thought of Anders. "And I'm luckier than most, believe me."

When she entered the Hanged Man that night, she found Fenris and Merrill playing cards with Varric and Isabela. Merrill saw her first, and to Hawke's horror she let out a piercing squeal and charged at her like a wiry little deep stalker.

"Hawke!" Merrill flitted around her, gently stroking her hair where it curled around her face. "Oh, it's so pretty! You look like a flower!"

"I...thank you, Merrill," she said, trying to dodge the gentle assault. She joined the others at the table, all too aware of the scrutiny she faced. "Could everyone stop staring? I feel like I might catch fire."

"I like it," Isabela said. "Makes you look a bit wild."

"You do know how to turn heads," Varric acknowledged.

"Fenris," Merrill chirped, and Hawke cringed. "Doesn't Hawke look pretty?"

"Yes," he mumbled without looking up from his drink. "It is...very fine."

"Thank you, everyone." She inhaled deeply. "So, have I missed anything?"

"Isabela is winning," Fenris muttered. "Try not to faint."

"I think I'm just a spectator tonight," she chuckled, heading for the bar. She scanned the room with feigned disinterest and spotted her companion playing cards in the corner. One of the men with him looked like one of her miners, but she couldn't recall his name. Her blond man glanced up and she caught his eye; he almost knocked over his glass. She smiled and turned to Corff.

As she waited for her pint, he appeared beside her, leaning casually against the bar. "I just have to say, _wow," _he said, not looking at her. The heat radiated between them, quickening her pulse.

"Really?" she murmured, pretending to examine the graffiti carved into the bar. "I'll have you saying more than that before the night's through."

"I could be okay with that." He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in close. "I think your friends are staring," he whispered. "I'll see you later."

She got her pint and sure enough, turned to find her friends watching her.

"Who was that?" Merrill asked as she sat down.

"Who?"

"I think she means the man at the bar."

Hawke shot Varric a threatening look. "Oh, no one. A refugee, I suppose."

"You two looked thick as thieves, if I didn't know better," Isabela said.

She swallowed. "He told me a joke. A...Ferelden joke. Wasn't even funny. Is someone dealing the cards, or not?"


	8. Chapter 8

When the sleep spell wore off, she found Anders asleep in a nearby armchair. With a flick of her wrist, the chair shattered, sending him scrambling to his feet. He stared at her with wide eyes. "Hawke -"

She shot a spike of ice at the floor beside his foot, and he jumped. "You started it."

"I was just trying to help, Hawke."

"Help?" she snapped, advancing on him. "Magic doesn't _help_ people, Anders."

"You know that's not -"

"Shut up!" she shrieked. "You didn't help her! You _couldn't_ help her! So what good is it? What good is magic when I'm still watching everyone I love die?!" She stood two steps away from him, hands clenched into fists, her whole body quivering. He reached for her and she smacked his hand away. "Don't. Don't you sodding _touch_ me. Not again."

"Hawke, please."

"Please _what,_ Anders?" If he tells me to calm down, she thought, Maker help me I'll -

He took a shaky breath. "Please don't hurt me."

Her anger crumbled at his words, leaving her weak. She looked down at her hands, where her fingernails had cut tiny half-moons across her palms. She looked up at the splintered remains of the chair, the mark on the carpet left by the ice bolt. Her eyes filled with tears. "Anders... I'm so..."

"I know, it's alright." He took a tentative step toward her, reaching, and this time she let him put his arm around her. He led her back to the bed and sat her down while she soaked his shirt with tears.

"Don't make me sleep again," she sobbed, unable to articulate the agony she endured when the spell subsided and her grief crashed down upon her once again. Anders spoke, but she couldn't make out the words over her own raw keening. He held her tightly, his elegant hands stroking her arm, her shoulder, her back; his voice washing over her like a cool rain, and when she felt herself sinking, she didn't fight it.

Gradually, Hawke identified the weight pressing down on her as layers of quilts, and the droning buzz as voices. She listened as the buzz coalesced into words.

"You need to get some rest, Blondie. You look like the wrong end of a nug."

"I'm fine. Really."

"He's right, Anders," Hawke mumbled, her words lost in the pile of blankets. Her friends had to help extricate her. "You should go," she insisted as soon as she broke free. "I appreciate it, but..." She shrugged and tried for a smile. It didn't work.

He leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. "If you need me, I'll be at the clinic."

"Thank you," she said, touching his hand.

He gave Varric a meaningful look on his way out.

"If you're thinking about kicking me out too, you can forget it."

She sighed. "Suit yourself."

"Can I convince you to have breakfast with me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Varric, I think you could convince the Circle to free the mages, if you tried."

"I think I should work my way up to that."

"Give me a minute to change. Ask Orana to fix us something?"

"See you downstairs."

She dragged herself out of the nest of blankets, surprised to find that she was dressed, but not…

Her throat tightened. She couldn't remember changing her robes. These were soiled with sweat, and as she discarded them in favor of her dressing gown, she wondered if it had been Anders who'd dressed her. Looking around her bedroom, she saw no sign of her deep green robes, the ones that would still reek of foul magic and unnatural death. Hot, stinging tears filled her eyes again and she slammed her fist into the bedpost. It hurt bad enough that she cried out, but the pain centered her somehow. She took several deep, shaking breaths and wiped her eyes, then headed downstairs to meet Varric.

"Messere Hawke," Bodahn greeted her. "It... it's good to see you again."

She forced a smile. "Varric?"

"Already in the dining room, Messere."

Standing in the doorway, she stared, realizing that her mother would never again sit at the head of the table, never scold her for being late - or absent, never… Something twisted inside her and she squeezed her eyes shut.

A soft touch at her elbow startled her.

"You okay?" Varric asked.

"Let's... eat in the garden, shall we?"

They sat on a stone bench and ate with their plates balanced on their laps.

"Fenris came by last night. Blondie told him he could stay, but..."

"Probably just as well. The last thing I need is a fight on my hands."

"What _do_ you need, Hawke?"

She stared across the courtyard, watching the shadows of the trees dancing across the flagstone. "Rope," she said finally.

"Hawke... "

She chuckled, the sound hard and bitter. "When we lived in Lothering, my father made a hammock. My mother hated it." She shrugged. "I need something to do, anyhow." She caught a glimpse of his dubious expression. "I don't need a nursemaid, Varric!" she said sharply. "What do you intend to do, follow me around like a dog? Because I have a dog, thank you." She swallowed hard and turned away.

"I'll go," Varric said without a trace of unkindness. "I'll even send Bodahn to the market for you. But I can't promise not to check up on you."

She pressed her lips between her teeth to stop them quivering and listened to his footsteps recede. When the door closed behind him she eased herself to the ground and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees.

From the corner of her eye she spotted an ant trundling by, hauling a crumb. Hawke watched his slow passage with detached interest. She admired his dedication; his pace never slowed, his steps never faltered, he just pressed on.

"Messere?"

She turned to see Bodahn just outside the door. He had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and a sheathed dagger in one hand. They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Hawke got to her feet and went to collect her supplies. He readily handed over the rope, but when she reached for the dagger he took a half-step back.

"Bodahn." She'd meant to sound gentle and reassuring, but even to her own ears she sounded harsh, angry. She cleared her throat. "You needn't worry. I don't intend to do myself any harm."

He glanced away guiltily and held out the knife. "Of course, messere. My apologies. I just -"

"Not at all. I do appreciate the concern." She walked away before he could speak further. When she finally looked back, he had retreated into the house. In the time it took her to anchor the rope to the trunk of the thickest tree, she concluded that the loose sleeves of her dressing gown would be a hindrance. She stripped it off and roughly sheared the sleeves off with her dagger. As the day wore on and the sun beat down, she'd end up twisting one of the sleeves into a rope to hold back her hair.

Orana appeared with a tray; Hawke ignored her until she left. There was a pitcher of water and a glass, a hunk of bread, a dab of jam on a plate. She drank straight from the pitcher. As long as she emptied it before Orana came back, the girl never spoke, not even when ants overran the bread and jam; she just took away the tray and left a fresh pitcher.

As daylight failed, she worked faster, and by the time the sun had begun to really set, the hammock was finished. She flung herself into it, exhausted, aching, hands covered in blisters, sunburned arms and neck stinging. Voices from her past echoed as if from a great distance - the twins as children, chasing each other around the yard; her mother complaining; her father lovingly placating her…


	9. Chapter 9

Hawke bolted upright and found herself spilling onto the flagstone. She hit with a guttural cry as pain exploded at several points on her body.

"Oh mistress, I'm so sorry!" Orana dropped to her knees beside her. "Let me help you."

She sat up, rubbing the side of her head where she had thwacked it on the ground. "I'm not - what happened?" she said hoarsely.

"It's my fault, mistress. I woke you, startled you. I didn't mean to!"

"Of course not. It's alright, Orana." She'd also bashed her elbow quite severely; the tentative brush of her fingertips was enough to make her wince. "Was there something you needed?" As she stared at the hammock, she slowly remembered why she'd been in the garden.

"You have a visitor."

She groaned. "Who?"

Orana tugged at her apron. "Fenris?"

She covered her face with dirty hands. "Andraste's smallclothes. Uh...have him wait in the library. I can't -" she gestured vaguely at herself, sure that it went without saying.

"Of course, mistress."

She waited at the door, stretching her stiff and aching neck. When she thought the coast was probably clear, she rushed up to her room. Orana was already there, filling the washbasin. Hawke gingerly mopped away the dirt and dried sweat, her shoulders screaming in protest. She knew without looking that her hair was a mess, so she tied a scarf over it and called it good. When she turned, Orana stood waiting with a dress in her hands. Ordinarily she dressed herself, but the pain in her arms convinced her to accept the help. The silk was blessedly cool against her sunburned skin.

She entered the library quietly, and found Fenris pacing.

"Fenris," she said stiffly. She spied two glasses of water on the side table and seized one gratefully.

"I… I don't know what I can say… but I am here."

She turned to face him, taking in his thick, dark brows knit together over anguished green eyes, the creases on his forehead, the tense line of his shoulders.

"Thank you," she said quietly, turning away.

"Hawke…"

She looked at him over her shoulder. "You think magic is to blame, don't you?"

He hesitated. "Don't you?"

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and exhaled slowly. "You should go."

"I'm -"

"Was I unclear?" she asked, advancing on him. "I want you to go."

"Hawke, please, I -"

"Stop!" she shouted, and he froze. "I'm sorry that not even this could make me hate myself. Maybe -" her voice cracked and she shook her head. "No. Just go."

His emotions waged war across his face, hurt, sadness, guilt… but the hatred remained, as always. Perhaps he couldn't let it go, or perhaps he simply didn't want to. Through the haze of her tears she watched him go, sick with the shame of knowing that she could have loved him, a man who hated the very tie that bound her to her father, to her sister. As soon as the door closed behind him she hurled her glass at it, barely hearing it shatter. She curled up in the corner by the desk and cried herself to sleep.

Sleeping resulted in ghastly nightmares, and waking meant facing the true horror, so with a bottle of wine in each hand, Hawke wandered the estate like a specter. She avoided bed at all costs; when weariness overcame her, she'd find a place to doze - her hammock, an armchair, wedged between the armoire and the vanity in her room. A fog enveloped her mind, blurring the lines of dream and reality, and she spent much of her day seeing people who probably weren't there, and not seeing people who might have been.

"You're in quite a state," a familiar voice said.

She had tried to climb the library stairs and failed, so she'd settled into a heap on the floor, propped against the banister, and at some point drifted off. Blinking several times, her guest came into focus. "What are you doing here?"

"I know I've no right to be here," her companion from the Hanged Man said, "but I heard what happened, and I… I was worried."

She tested the nearest wine bottle and found it empty. "It's not your place to worry about me," she growled.

"I tried telling myself that, but it was remarkably ineffective," he said, staying safely out of arm's reach. "I told your serving girl that I'd leave as soon as she could assure me that you're alright, but she couldn't. Imagine that."

She glared at him. "What is it that you want?"

"I sent her to ready a bath for you. I'd like you to go up of your own volition, but if you won't, I _will_ haul you upstairs and throw you in fully clothed."

She twisted to sit on her heels, steadying herself against the banister. "You think it would be that easy?"

"That girl out there says you haven't eaten today, or slept properly, and from the look of things I'd say you're about six bottles in." He crossed his arms. "I never was much of a templar, but yes, I think I could manage."

She positively seethed at him. "Do you have any idea what's happened?" she growled through clenched teeth, but she could feel tears prickling at the backs of her eyes.

"I've heard a few things. Not the whole story, but enough to know that it was awful beyond words."

She tried to will away her tears. "Then why are you here?" she choked out. "Why can't you just leave me alone like everyone else?"

"Yes, because being left alone has obviously served you well." He crouched down before her. "You can't run from this, Gwenyth, and you can't hide forever. I'm not here to coddle you. You're not broken." And before she could protest, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She kicked and struggled, but his earlier assessment of her proved humiliatingly accurate. He put her down just outside her bedchamber, but she lost her balance and he had to catch her.

Fury, tainted with shame, boiled white-hot in the pit of her stomach. "Let me go!" she cried, slamming her fist into his shoulder.

He released her, and she stumbled back against the door.

"Do you want to hit me?" he asked calmly. "Would that make you feel better?"

She balled her hands into fists. "I… I…" Her stomach rolled violently, and she realized a second too late. Grabbing the hem of her dress, she vomited wine into her skirt. The force of it drove her to her knees, and between retches she could hear the blond man calling for Orana. By the time they got a bucket under her face, the storm had subsided. She gripped the door frame with one trembling hand and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Oh Maker," she whispered shakily.

She felt Orana's dainty fingers at the back of her neck, unbuttoning the dress and helping Hawke peel it off. Her companion pulled her gently to her feet and guided her into her room, and she had never been so grateful to see a bath in her life. "You must think -"

"I think you need to eat something before you're sick again," he said firmly as he helped her settle into the water. As if on cue, Orana arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Do you need help, mistress?" she asked, eying the blond man nervously.

She shook her head. "It's alright, Orana. And I'm so sorry, about the mess."


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke's cheeks burned as she took tiny nibbles of biscuit. Gradually, the storm in her stomach calmed and she sank back, resting her head on the edge of the tub. In her peripheral vision, she could see her companion moving about her room. "Are you snooping?" she asked weakly.

"Not exactly." He brought the stool from her vanity, and she glimpsed her hairbrush resting on the padded seat. Settling himself behind her, he eased the brush through her messy curls.

Her instinct was to protest, but it felt divine. She sighed softly as some of the tension melted out of her neck. "I thought I didn't need to be coddled."

"This isn't coddling, this is a public service. Have you looked at yourself lately?"

His teasing tone made her mouth twitch, and she tried to splash him but the water ended up hitting her own face.

"You should settle down before you drown yourself," he said, his voice stern over barely withheld laughter, as he drew the brush through her hair again. "That's better. Down you go," he instructed, and she obligingly dunked her head under the water and let him shampoo her hair, her scalp tingling from his careful ministrations.

She sat up to wash, wincing as she glided the soap over her sunburned arms.

"Maker, you _are_ a mess," he said, cringing.

"I really am," she agreed, looking at her torn and blistered fingers. "What am I going to do?" she asked quietly.

"Tonight, you're going to sleep it off, and tomorrow you'll start again. It won't be easy, but you'll do it. You're strong."

She met his eyes for the first time since he'd arrived. "Do you… have you ever…?"

He nodded, his eyes dark with memory. "I never really knew my family, but I had a friend once… He gave me a better life than the one I was meant for. And I should have been there to save him, but I wasn't." He swallowed hard. "I never even got to say goodbye."

Hawke bit her lip, remembering her mother touching her arm with a stranger's hands, but it was still her face, still her voice saying _I love you. _"I got that. At least I got that."

He held his hand out to her. "Come on, let's get you to bed." He politely looked away and handed her a towel.

As she dried herself off, she stifled a giggle at the absurdity of this act of chivalry. "Thank you. For… everything." She slipped into a clean nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed, towelling her hair.

"Yes, well…" he glanced around the room before giving her a small smile. "The change of scenery was well worth it."

"Will you stay?" she asked impulsively.

He blinked at her. "What?"

She dipped her head, embarrassed. "I just… I don't want to be alone."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he gave her a small but formal bow. "Mistress mine, my will is thine." He undressed, folding his clothes neatly and laying them on the low bench by the door, and climbed under the covers with her.

She felt suddenly shy, nervous. "Do me a favor?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Of course," he smiled, tucking his arms under his head.

"Be here when I wake up, alright?"

He reached over and brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her cheek. "I'll stay as long as you like," he promised.

"Thank you," she whispered, resting her head on his chest.

Hawke awoke screaming, drenched in sweat. When she felt a hand on her shoulder she reeled away in a panic and fell out of bed.

"It's me," said a familiar voice.

With a shaking hand she lit the candle beside the bed, illuminating her companion's worried face. She shook her head, her breath coming in short gasps. "Sorry."

"It's alright, he assured her, offering a hand.

She let him help her back into bed, but when he tried to put his arm around her, he stiffened.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, only the barest trace of hurt in his voice.

"No!" She grabbed his arm, her grip desperate, panicked. "Maker, no. I just…" Her voice cracked. "Yesterday… no, probably not yesterday. I don't know. But I went to the dining room, and it hit me that I'd never see her again, and -" she choked back a sob, "- and I was relieved. Maybe even glad." She turned her wide, tear-swollen eyes to him. "What does that make me?"

He reached out tentatively and cupped her cheek. "Human. That's all. Just because you didn't love everything about her doesn't mean you didn't love her. You're remembering her for who she really was, not some sugar-coated ideal. Don't you think she'd want that?"

"Probably not," she chuckled, her voice shaking.

"Here, lie down," he instructed. She laid her head in his lap and he stroked her forehead, her cheeks, her increasingly heavy eyelids.

"Why are you doing all this?" she murmured.

But she drifted off before he could answer.

The soft light of dawn filtered through a gap in the drapes, falling across the bed. Hawke lay there for a moment, watching the band of light rise and fall with her companion's deep, snoring breaths. Myriad conflicting thoughts besieged her, not the least of which that she'd never woken up to a man in her bed, and so she didn't know what to do next.

He had come here for her, worried about her. He had shaken her from her mire of misery and self-pity and dragged her, kicking and screaming, back to reality. He had stayed the night, comforted her, helped her sleep. Only a fool would believe that he did these things out of casual interest. The more pressing question, however, was if it was him that she had wanted, or just the solace of another person. As she reached over and cautiously brushed his tousled blond hair away from his face, something small echoed deep inside her and she realized she wasn't sure of the answer.

And I don't even know his _name, _she reminded herself.

She slipped out of bed, retrieved a dressing gown from the armoire, and slipped out into the hall. Outside her door, there was no evidence of the mess she'd made last night. She cringed as she recalled the debacle; what had possessed her to catch it in her _skirt_?

"Good morning, Messere," Bodahn greeted her as she descended the stairs. "It's good to see you...that is..."

"Not wandering about piss drunk? It's alright, I've been awful and I know it. And I owe you all an apology."

"Of course you don't, Messere. We know you're having a rough go of things."

Orana peeked her head around the corner. "Are you feeling better today, mistress?"

Rubbing her forehead, she groaned inwardly. "Much, thank you. And I am so very sorry for the mess."

"Oh no, please don't. It was no trouble. I'm still working on your dress, but -"

"Please don't worry about the dress, Orana. It's not worth it."

The girl frowned, looking - like usual - as if she'd done something wrong. "If you're sure…"

"I am," Hawke assured her.

"Would you like me to make breakfast?"

She smiled. "That would be lovely."

"For both of you?"

Over Orana's shoulder, Hawke could see Bodahn's look of surprise. "Yes, thank you."

The girl flitted off into the kitchen and Hawke headed back upstairs to wake her guest.


	11. Chapter 11

In Hawke's absence, her companion had sprawled across the bed, and one leg had worked free of the blanket. Biting her lip, she crept close and trailed her fingertips up his muscular calf. His voice rumbled wordlessly from under the covers.

"Breakfast? I think I'll faint if I don't eat soon."

He stretched and sat up. "You realize I have to wear the same clothes I had on last night? People will talk." His mocking tone earned him a pillow across the face.

"Yes, well, it is your turn." She paused in front of the mirror, pretending not to watch him get dressed, but the hand she lifted to fuss with her hair was trembling. "Maker, I really am going to faint."

"Well, we can't have that. My back can't handle much more carrying you."

"I'm seriously considering revoking your invitation and eating all the breakfast myself." She made it halfway down the stairs before Bodahn's expression stopped her.

"By the stone - Ser Alistair? Is it really you?"

Her companion halted behind her. "Bodahn? Of all the -"

Her eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "You two know each other?"

Bodahn's face lit up. "My boy and I traveled with Ser Alistair and Ser Regina during the blight." He looked past her. "And it was a nasty business, Ser, the way she turned on you like that. If you don't mind my saying so."

Everything clicked into the unlikeliest place. She slowly turned to him, combing her memories for an image of King Cailan and comparing it to his face, which currently wore an anxious expression. Sure enough, the resemblance was there.

Of all the thoughts that could have crossed her mind, the one that did was _finally a man mother would have approved of, _and she dissolved into giggles. Alistair Theirin, rightful heir to the Ferelden throne, gave her a perplexed glare, and her laughter reached such a fever pitch that she plunked down on the step, shaking her head. "It's not -" she gasped "- not what you -" but her belly was aching and tears were rolling down her cheeks and she gave up trying to explain.

"Oh come _on_," he huffed, exasperated.

She choked down a few deep breaths and stifled the worst of her hysterics. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm really not. It's just -" when she tried to say the words, laughter threatened all over again. "I can't - I'll explain later." She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet.

Bodahn stared at the two of them quizzically. Finally, he shook his head. "I... need to see to my boy. I'm here if you need anything, Messere."

"Sandal?" Alistair said in surprise. "Sandal's here too?"

"I went on an expedition to the Deep Roads a few years back. Bodahn and Sandal were there. Bodahn thinks I rescued Sandal, but truth be told, I'm not sure he ever needed help." Breakfast was already on the table, and her stomach roared at the sight of food. "There was so much empty space here, with just Mother and I, so I offered them a place to stay." She shrugged, breaking apart a biscuit. "Bodahn appointed himself my manservant, and I honestly don't know how I'd get by without him. Especially…" Her mouth went dry. "Especially now." She washed down her grief with tea. "I'm pretty sure you know most everything else." She watched him expectantly.

He sighed into his tea. "How much do you want to know?"

She tempered her curiosity with politeness. "As much as you're willing to tell?"

"I was recruited to the Wardens before I took my vows. At Ostagar, Teyrn Loghain caused the death of King Cailan and the Grey Wardens of Ferelden save myself and one other."

"Regina Cousland."

He scowled. "That's the one."

Hawke recalled that night in his room, when he spoke of betrayal. The final piece of the puzzle.

"Loghain spread the word that we were responsible for the slaughter. He sent soldiers after us - and an assassin. He sent a blood mage to poison the Arl of Redcliffe. He enslaved elves from the alienages, tortured those who spoke out against him...and when we had the opportunity to punish him for his crimes, Regina decided we should not just let him live, but make him a Grey Warden as well. I told her that I'd leave if she offered the Joining to a murderer. She didn't try to stop me." He laughed bitterly. "She told me I was embarrassing myself."

"Is that why you came to Kirkwall?"

"No, it wasn't until she married the man that I decided nowhere in Ferelden would be far enough away."

She tried to wrap her mind around it. Regina Cousland Mac Tir - Warden Commander, Teyrna of Gwaren, Hero of Amaranthine - a heartless, manipulative shrew. "Wow. Someone spent a bit too much time around darkspawn." She offered a tentative smile and his expression softened just a little.

"It could be worse. I could have married her."

She felt a twinge at those words that made her uneasy.

"Now, are you gonna tell me what was so funny back on the stairs?"

"Oh, that." She rubbed her forehead, embarrassed. "When I realized who you were, the irony just struck me. All the sneaking around, with a man mother actually would have favored." The humor had worn off by now, and saying the words just added to that weight in her chest.

"I am so sorry for what happened," he said gently, reaching across the corner of the table.

Hawke's rational mind protested even as she let him take her hand. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb, and she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

"Messere," Bodahn said from the doorway, "a friend of yours is here." He brushed his shoulder with one hand, his signal for Anders. He'd initially devised the code to help her dodge her mother's questions, but it made her giggle and he knew it. He had signals to represent all of her friends. Well, except Aveline.

"You can send him in," she replied. She adjusted her dressing gown and smoothed her hair.

"Hawke, I'm -" Anders paused in the doorway. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were… busy."

"Not at all." She looked to Alistair for assent, and he reluctantly nodded. "This is Alistair. Alistair, I'd like you to meet my friend Anders."

"Alistair, the Grey Warden?" he asked incredulously.

"So they say."

"Anders is also recently departed from the Order. You two could start a club."

"Huh. How about that?" he said with a bemused grin.

"Would you like some tea, Anders?"

"Ah, no, thank you. I just came to make sure you're alright."

She smiled encouragingly. "I'm alright."

"I'm glad to hear it. Will we see you tonight?"

The thought of facing not just one or two people but a whole group dizzied her somewhat, and her smile faltered. "I… maybe."

"Fair enough. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you, Anders."

When he was gone, she and Alistair exchanged a look.

"I can hear it now," he said. "'Bastard Prince of Ferelden Caught in Bed with Hightown's Most Eligible Lady'."

"We're not in bed," she teased, chuckling. "Come on, I want to show you something."

She led him out to the garden. "I made that… at some point," she said, pointing to the hammock. She showed him the blisters on her fingers. "See?"

"Is it safe?"

She elbowed him in the side. "Only one way to find out."

"And give you the chance to knock me out?" He opted for a nearby bench. "What sort of fool do you take me for?"

"I would _never," _she said with a curtsey, "my prince."

"Oh, don't you dare," he growled, grabbing the front of her dressing gown and pulling her in for a kiss.


End file.
